English Boys
by Ninazadzia
Summary: Marvel/Glimmer. Marvel can't help but be the funny, sweet, quirky boyfriend, even if Glimmer's perception of men is inherently skewed. Written for Rachel for the 2014 GGE.


**English Boys**

By Ninazadzia

_So tell all the English boys you meet, about the American boy back in the states._

_The American boy you used to date._

_Who would do anything you say._

-Jude Law and a Semester Abroad, **Brand New**

XXX

Our relationship occurred was the result of happenstance. That should've been my first red flag.

I don't mean happenstance in the I-almost-hit-her-with-a-car-and-then-we-fell-in-love sense. No, that's not how it started at all.

I'll tell you exactly how it started. I want you to picture _this-_

Young, gangly teenager. Out of control blonde curls and heinous acne. Tall, about 6'2". Best friends with High School superstar varsity quarterback—can get just about any girl he wants. Said gangly teen is known as the "funny best friend." Equally liked as said quarterback best friend, probably even more so, but possesses about half of the sexual appeal.

Enter tall, blonde, luscious _thing. _Best friends with superstar varsity cheerleading/keg squad. Funny, flirtatious. Has a best friend who is dating said varsity superstar quarterback.

Combine the two.

She thinks I'm quirky. She takes a leap of faith, and for once, she dates the funny one instead of the attractive one. She read in a magazine once that quirky is the new cool, and that the quirky guys treat you better.

So, there you have it. If she hadn't picked up that magazine article, if I wasn't best friends with a the varsity quarterback, if she wasn't best friends with his girlfriend—

_Total_ happenstance.

XXX

That all being said, I know what I am to Glimmer. I'm her Michael Cera. I'm the funny, sweet, slightly awkward guy that's supposed to worship the ground she walks on.

Well, she isn't too far off. But what can you expect, from a guy that's used to hooking up with fives and sixes, at best? To be completely superficial, she's a total ten. I probably wouldn't do any better for the rest of my life—might as well make it last as long as I can.

So I date her. I kiss her sweetly, I pay for her dinners, and I tell her she's beautiful. And for a while, that's enough. That's enough to keep her interested, and for her to tell herself that, _yes,_ dating the funny less-attractive one was for _once _a good decision.

XXX

I only catch her red-handed once. I'd estimate there had been at _least _five or six times before that, but that's conjecture—anyway, once was enough. Once verified my suspicions.

Enter my senior year of high school. I'm leaving school late because I had a club meeting. I see her car in the parking lot.

I smile to myself. I check my bag; Ms. Lipinski handed out chocolates in class today (she was one of those maternal-type teachers), and instead of eating mine, I'd saved them for her. I decide, then and there, to wait by her car and surprise her. It's getting late—cheerleading practice would be over soon at the very least, if not now.

I approach her Audi, and see that the windows are steamed up. The vehicle shifts slightly, rocking from side to side. I'm no idiot. I don't need to take another step to know what it means.

But I do, anyway. And when I open the car door and see my best friend (naked) and her (naked), my deepest suspicions are confirmed.

She's with me because I kiss her sweetly, I pay for her dinners, and I tell her she's beautiful.

But, most importantly, she's with me because I (unintentionally) look the other way.

XXX

I should clarify; she's no monster. She's certainly no saint, but her emotions (guilt, specifically) are very much intact.

"Marvel, I'm so, so sorry."

She blubbers to me later that night. She begs for my forgiveness, and her continues to stumble through her apologies. She's trying not to cry, she's trying not cry—yep, there you have it, she's crying. Her face is soon streaked with mascara tears.

I know I should end it then and there, and then promptly pay a visit to my so-called "best friend" and give him a warranted punch in the face.

But instead, I figure, _it's senior year—what does it matter? _It's not like we'll stay together after graduation, anyway. And it's not like I'll ever do any better.

She is, after all, a ten. I should make that last while I can.

So I pull her in. I stroke her. I whisper in her ear, "I forgive you, I forgive you."

And then, I make a mental note to upgrade.

XXX

When I say "upgrade," yes of _course _I'm talking about my appearance. Her reasons for her debauchery are plain and simple; while she finds me emotionally satisfying, I just don't cut it sexually.

I've slept with her, yes, and on numerous occasions. But every time, I can tell that I'm vastly inexperienced in comparison. After all, she's the blonde bombshell—I'm Michael Cera.

I can accept that she cheated on me, and that it was probably going on for a number of months—but I can't accept that she might continue to cheat on me. And, if she will, I should at least try to give her a damn good reason not to, right?

So I bulk up. I start lifting, and gain twenty, thirty pounds of muscle. I steal from my sister's arsenal of acne creams, and I finally get a long-overdue haircut.

Before long, I am reborn. I'm not Michael Cera anymore. I'm not my quarterback best friend, either, but my efforts will have to do.

XXX

After that, sex becomes more frequent. I still kiss her softly and pay for her dinners and tell her she's beautiful—the difference is that afterwards, I'll strip her of her clothes and passionately throw her on to a bed.

It's then that I _really _fall in love, because I finally see the returned affection that's in her eyes. I finally start to see some of the same longing in her that I so often see in myself.

Okay, so she cheated on me. But there was a different side of her. There was a side that only I got to see.

XXX

We're wrapped up in between sheets on a frigid February day. Her head is nestled in my shoulder. She glances up at me.

"Did I ever tell you about my dad?"

I shake my head, no.

The story she launches into is fairly basic and short. She met her dad once, and it was on her tenth birthday. Her mother never let him see her; he was an alcoholic, and before Glimmer could toddle, he'd threaten to beat her or kill her whenever she cried.

Years went by. He checked himself into AA. He came out just in time for Glimmer's tenth, only to have his ex-wife slam the front door in his face. Still, there was enough time for him to get a glimpse, and there was enough time for _her _to get a glimpse, and for her to understand that _that_ was supposed to be her male figure.

She was young, but even she could tell; _her _male figurewas essentially a failure.

My head was cloudy from hormones, but the realization, inevitably, dawned on me. Glimmer's mother was a known harlot; she'd sleep with men while her daughter was in the house. Glimmer's father was absent.

Glimmer's perception of men was inherently skewed.

"You're not like the rest of them," she whispers. "You're kind."

She was scared, and she was scared to get too close. Just not when it came to _physical _intimacy.

XXX

Yeah, so I was sympathetic. So what?

That didn't stop her from cheating on me, three months later.

XXX

Enter June of my senior year. I'm done. I'm done I'm done I'm done. I'm so fucking done with the blonde glamazon, with telling her she's beautiful, with paying for her dinners and with kissing her sweetly.

_I'm done._

Those words scream in my head _constantly_. Our relationship has long past. It's over. It's beyond saving.

But, we smile for the prom pictures as if nothing's wrong. As if we're the happiest couple in the world. As if I'm oblivious to the fact that she's cheating on me.

XXX

_London._

That's her excuse.

"London?" I guffaw.

"Yeah, London," she says Of course she flunked her senior year; of course she wasn't accepted into any colleges. I'd kind of expected that. What I didn't expect, however, was that she decided to take her gap year two thousand miles from home.

A lump rises in my throat. "When do you leave?"

"I want to say that it depends on you." I can feel my heart break as the words come out of her mouth. "But it doesn't. I want to leave, and I want to leave _right now._"

"When do you leave?" I ask again.

"Two days after graduation," she says.

I wait for her to say it, to just come right out and _tell me _the truth. _Say it, say it, say it._ I try to taunt her with my eyes.

_Tell me you don't love me. Tell me you never did. Tell me that the reason you're leaving for a gap year in fucking London is because you don't fucking respect me enough to tell me that you don't love me, and that you want something else. _

_Tell me that you're doing this to end things without having to actually say anything._

But she never does. Instead, I just stare at her, and I keep staring at her as she backs away from my porch and goes to her car, turns on the ignition and drives away.

XXX

There are pictures of London, of course. In every single one, she has her lips, arms, and legs draped around a different boy. She's at a different pub, drinking a different drink every single night.

It doesn't take long for me to notice that every last trace of me and _her_, of our two year relationship, specifically, have been deleted from existence. Gone. No longer on her profile.

How fucking stupid—

I don't scream, I don't swear, I don't punch a wall or anything like that. Instead, I go to the kitchen. I find a bottle of Jack Daniels. I sit down in front of my computer, a few drinks in.

I type out the following:

_To my hottest, most dearest ex-girlfriend,_

_Please accept my fucking apology, because I'm so sorry that I was nice to you for twenty-four months. Clearly, my kindness was such a fucking burden, and that's why you felt the need to go trans-continental just to escape me. Obviously you fucking win. While I'm studying my ass off at Yale, you'll be fucking hordes of English assholes. So, from the absolute bottom of my heart, congratu-fucking-lations._

_And, please, feel fucking free to tell any British pricks about your loser-ex-boyfriend that worshipped the ground you walked on. Clearly I'm such an asshole that I deserve as much._

_Warmest fucking regards,_

_Marvel_

I resist the urge to hit send. Instead, I crawl into bed, and I lie there for hours before finally drifting off.

XXX

I wake up with the email on my monitor.

I could send it; I probably should. She deserved as much.

I read the draft over once more. I soak it all in, enjoy every word, and then hit "delete."

I can't help it—I'll always be Michael Cera. I'll always be the quirky nice guy.

But that doesn't mean that I wish her well.

XXX

**A/N: Written for the lovely Rachel (aka bloodbuzz) for the 2014 Gift-Giving Extravaganza. Love you so much, doll xx**

**Thanks a ton for reading. You guys fucking **_**rock.**_

**xx Nina**


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